


Miscellaneous The 100 Drabbles

by elle_stone



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Drabbles, F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-29 13:11:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5128850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_stone/pseuds/elle_stone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some miscellaneous drabbles, originally posted to tumblr.  Various pairings, all stand alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anya/Clarke: Is there hope for us?

**Author's Note:**

> In which Anya didn't die.
> 
> Originally posted to my tumblr [here](http://kinetic-elaboration.tumblr.com/post/128153681495/clarke-rare-pairs-day-one-clarkeanya).

The Ark, gray prison home, unnatural habitat, where Clarke thought she’d been born only to count out the years of her life, to move human life itself forward a generation’s worth of years, and then die—the Ark is an odd background for Anya, who grew up from the Earth itself, its true survivor. She’s been scrubbed clean of the worst of the mud. Her face is still smudged with it, though, and her skin is tan from a life in the open, beneath the sun. Never has she looked more a child of the Ground. And Clarke, her fingertips resting light against the wall, this false familiar object now imbedded in the ground, has never felt herself more an alien. 

Anya rests her back against the same wall, and doesn’t look at Clarke, or at anything. With the last of the mud is mixed the most persistent of the blood. She touches the bandage Abby applied over the wound, but if it hurts, she shows no sign of it. Clarke isn’t sure herself why she’s here. Maybe she means to apologize, or to talk, or to act as guard. A bit of privacy has been carved out for them, but only to indulge her people’s stupid, senseless fear. The one who fired the shot was disappointed to have missed his kill, and not even Clarke’s wrath, pounding fists against him, her threats, could wipe away his expression of half triumph, half disgust, when he’d seen Anya fall. 

Anya’s eyes flick over, just for a moment, as Clarke sits down next to her. She doesn’t say anything though, and for a while, Clarke is silent, too. Clarke pictures her apology, and knows it would rejected as nothing more than weakness or a waste of breath. 

She pictures herself asking questions, but in her mind they become only useless commands: _Tell me about your commander. Tell me about yourself. Tell me what you think about this strange, unnatural home._

And Anya’s face, beautiful and opaque, the reserved face of a leader who’s learned well to give nothing away, staring back at her and silent every time. Clarke does not want to meet the Commander. She realizes that now. A different feeling curls up. It is an unspeakable and unnamable thing, a connection, a curiosity. 

What she asks, when she asks, is: “Is there hope for us?”

She thought she meant _for our alliance? For our people?_ But hearing the words and her own tone, she suspects she let a different meaning slip through. Anya tilts up her chin. Clarke has a fit of comprehension, and she remembers, like a sudden shock, the woman who would kill to stave off a death she thought she would not be able to stand. Broken, weak, and bloody, she still holds herself up to hold herself back.

“Have we earned it?”

Clarke furrows her brow at the question, odd, brought from another conversation like Anya seems brought from another world. 

“Hope isn’t earned.”

“Everything is earned.”

Clarke can’t believe that. She can’t discount luck and she can’t forget about chance, all of the reasons beyond herself that brought her exactly _here_. 

“No. Some things just need to be taken.”

For that, at least, she gets a smile—she thinks it’s a smile—and Anya’s eyes looking at her clearly at last. “If that’s what you believe, then you shouldn’t have asked me,” she murmurs.

Clarke hears only: _You will bring this to the end you want, you will make this what you want it to be._


	2. Finn/Clarke: Into the Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Season 2.

Finn follows her into the forest. She isn’t surprised to see him: she knew someone would come, someday, and it’s somehow fitting that it’s him. The first time, he arrives at dusk. He’s sitting down cross-legged in a patch of moss, eating a mushroom, and she tells him it’s dangerous to eat strange, unknown foods, and he answers that he has nothing to lose. She can hardly argue with that. Later, he brings them to her, mushrooms, and other gifts: beautiful things, radiant and incandescent. Glowing blue forest objects. Stones and leaves, a butterfly he balances on the edge of his hand, a crown of flowers for her hair. 

_For you, Princess._

Here, she is more like a queen.

Finn convinces her to climb up into the branches of her trees and survey her queendom from above. Heavy green leaves rustle in the late-summer, late-day sunlight; a flash of light pierces through, for a moment, a beautiful blinding light. She hears no sounds, but she imagines birds. 

_If you’d grown up here_ , Finn says, _you would have spent your whole childhood climbing up these things_. He’s balanced easily on the opposite branch, legs swinging down on either side. He kicks his feet. He looks unreal, and she feels unreal. _You would have been a tom-boy, probably._

 _Who says I wasn’t?_ she challenges, and grins.

Sometimes in the early mornings they take walks together, away from her little camp of the moment, holding hands and watching out for signs of life. Twigs crunch satisfyingly under foot. He spins out fantasies for her in a gentle, even voice. Often, to her surprise, they’re about childhood, a whole series of what if’s that make her hold his hand that much tighter, that make it hard to look at him. _What if we’d been young and happy here? What if we’d grown up with this air and this dirt and this grass, this underside of sky? Would we be different people now?_

_We know what we’d be like. We’d be Grounders._

He smiles, but his expression is sad. _You have to think bigger than that._

At night, she retires to the leaves. She spends hours watching the stars before she falls asleep, always an uneasy sleep, sometimes her head resting in Finn’s lap and Finn’s arms wrapped around her chest, a casual resting, one hand against her ribs. His hair is long, like when they first met: it’s his Skybox hair, his girlfriend’s-not-around-to-cut-it hair. She reaches up blindly to touch, and he grabs her wrist—his grip too hard, frightening—and pulls her hand away. _Careful there killer. You’ll poke an eye out._

Her breath catches; her eyes open. _What did you call me?_

_It’s what we are, isn’t it? Killers?_

She thinks she should push him away, but she needs him too much now. She turns on her side, instead, away from the stars and the forest, and closes her eyes tight and shoves her nose into his stomach, grabs at his shirt—his arms around her are comforting despite his words, his low voice in her ear. _You knew we’d have to talk about it eventually. It’s okay. You did the right thing._

It’s the words she clings to, as much as the body. He whispers them over and over, as he holds her, as he moves her so they’re lying side by side and clutching, grasping at each other, as the desperation dissipates and her wet, ragged breathing slows, again and again until she feels there’s nothing left, nothing more of herself to give. She clings to the words, and she expects the body will be gone by the time the sun comes up and the words will be all that’s left. 

But he’s still there when she wakes. She starts to sit up, resting her weight on her elbow and leaning over him. He is perfectly still and perfectly reposed in sleep. His skin is pale over sunken cheeks and his hair is half-covering his eyes. She brushes it away gently and then lets her palm rest against his cheek. She’s never looked at him so closely before, and his face is so perfect, and yet so human, that for a moment she truly believes he is real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr here.


	3. Monty + Jasper: Space Stoners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Monty Green Appreciation Week Day 1: Moment you fell in love with Monty. For me, it was when I found out he and Jasper were space!stoners. 
> 
> Originally posted to my tumblr: [here](http://kinetic-elaboration.tumblr.com/post/137100582580/monty-green-week-day-1).

Monty’s pretty sure they have their best conversations while high. Once, lying flat on the floor in Jasper’s room and tracing the constellations he sees on the normally drab gray Ark ceiling, he suggests they write them down—just write down _everything_ , everything we say, everything we _think_ , Jas—or maybe they could record it, even.

Jasper is lying on his bed with his sockfeet up on the wall and his head hanging upside down off the edge. “And leave evidence of our crime spree?” he asks. “No. The Ark must live without our genius.”

He pokes Monty in the forehead.

Monty swats his hand away.

“That is the Ark’s loss,” Monty laments, and lets out a long, sad sigh.

For a long moment, they’re both silent, and around them the ship hums, and outside, the sky is dark and full of pinprick stars, all beyond reach.

Jasper takes another hit, then passes his joint down to Monty—almost gone now, he’ll have the last. The first time they tried this, they made a whole production of the process, not just the growing bit, their true illegality, but the disabling of the smoke detector in Jasper’s room, the rolling of the joint—pathetic and poor—they had no idea what they were doing, only what they’d read and what they’d seen in the movies—and of course the first illicit hit.

“This…is… amazing,” Jasper had whispered, eyes wide, bugging out of his head with cartoon silliness, before he’d felt a thing. Monty had jostled his shoulder and told him to shut up, but in a quiet, gentle voice, without malice.

Now they’re only careful to return what they’ve taken to grow, and to make sure they have enough time to enjoy the fruits of their labor without interruption. The rest is routine. But Monty cherishes it still.

He lets his arm fall down, stretched out across the floor away from him (wow his arms are long) and closes his eyes with a contended sigh. “We are _such geniuses_ ,” he sighs, as a slow grin spreads across his face. Jasper is laughing somewhere off to his left, he’s not sure about what.

“It would be better if we had something to eat, though,” he answers, through his giggles.

“Um, yeah, something besides rations.” Monty makes a face, which sets off more laughter. He blinks his eyes up at Jasper, trying to make his own face very serious. Apparently he does a very poor job.

“We could invent something, we are expert farmers after all,” Jasper suggests, after a very long pause, during which Monty’s mind had wandered somewhere soft and fuzzy and distant. Jasper stretches his hands above his head, down to the floor, and starts to walk them out until he hits Monty’s leg. He seems to be trying to get down from the bed. Or do a handstand.

“Like invent a new food?” This seems like an expert idea, but also like there’s something obviously wrong about it, somehow.

Jasper’s balancing trick, whatever it was, fails miserably and he lands in a heap somewhere half on Monty and half on the floor.

“Oof,” he says.

“Some genius,” Monty says.

He closes his eyes to think and to listen to the sounds of the Jasper-shape next to him rearranging itself, which he pictures behind his eyelids, a very funny and very interesting sight indeed. He imagines melding, melting shapes in dark reds and blues. Then he pops open his eyelids and turns to his left and there are Jasper’s goggles and Jasper’s ear right in his face.

“Crazy genius,” Jasper murmurs, out of nowhere, and for no reason. Monty has totally forgotten what they were talking about. So he’s silent, and Jasper’s silent, and the joint is gone by now and there’s nothing to do but stare up at the ceiling and listen to the Ark. Humming, murmuring to them. Telling them its secrets, maybe. Waiting for them to understand.


	4. Jasper/Monty: Welcome to Earth, huh?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Day 3 of Monty Green Appreciation Week on Tumblr: Favorite Romantic Relationship. Set in S1 as Jasper is recovering from the spear incident.
> 
> Originally posted to my tumblr, [here](http://kinetic-elaboration.tumblr.com/post/137268405890/monty-green-week-day-3).

He considers saying: _Didn’t think you’d make it_ but—

Those words don’t want to form. They’re too hard and too honest and they’re not what Jasper will want to hear. Monty’s not sure he has the strength for them, anyway. Instead, he sits down cross-legged on the floor, next to the makeshift bed they’ve made, and just smiles what he hopes is an old, familiar smile.

And instead, he says, “Welcome to Earth, huh?”

“Warm welcome,” Jasper answers, but with no more than a ghost smile, not ready to joke about it this time. There’s no one else around, no one to joke for. He still looks pale, and his face is sickness-thin, blood-loss-thin; the way he tosses his head from one side to the other reminds Monty of the movements of the sick, or the delirious. He almost asks Jasper if his mind is clear, but he can’t, and he adds this to a pile of other things he cannot say. A growing pile; he’s not sure where he keeps it, if it’s the hard mass in his stomach or the lurking shadow in his thoughts, or if the unsaid is the very blood in his veins, now, a substance that keeps him alive.

His voice feels like something heavy in the back of his throat, immovable. He does not say a thing and then Jasper is looking at him again, careful and studying him in the dim dropship light, a familiar and yet totally alien, totally new stare.

Jasper’s hand, under the jacket, pokes up at it, moving it slightly. “You gave me your jacket.”

“Of course I did,” Monty says, his _don’t you know me_ voice.

“Thanks.”

He shrugs. Something else he wants to say: _I never really thought you would die. I know you’d never leave me._

And something else: T _he jacket was all I could give you._

Jasper’s half-smile falls, and he starts to push the jacket away. This movement feels like a hand clenching around Monty’s heart, a pains so unexpected he almost clutches his chest with it, and to stop his shaking hands he tries to push Jasper back down. His first thought is rejection and his second is that Jasper is trying to stand.

“Hey, hey, don’t get up. Clarke said you need to rest.”

“I know.” The tone of his voice tells Monty he’s misinterpreted something, and now a layer of confusion settles over everything else, over the wreckage of the last three days, over the sickness he’s felt with Jasper’s sickness, this fever not yet breaking.

“So what—”

Jasper’s moved the jacket to the side and shifted his body over, so there’s room next to him for Monty to lie down too. He offers no more invitation than this. They haven’t slept next to each other in a very long time, not since the maybe-I-like-boys conversation of two years ago, and Monty’s long convinced himself it’s just something they grew out of—that’s all.

And something else: _I’m sorry I didn’t go after you. I should have been the first person you saw._

Monty kicks off his shoes. His feet are cold. The nights are cold here. The temperature fluctuates with the movement of the sun, something he may never grow used to, an amazing new thing. He tells himself he won’t get any closer than he has to but there isn’t much room, and Jasper knew it: there’s nowhere else to go, there’s no other way to be than this, than right here nose to nose.


	5. Jasper/Monty: Monty Green's First Semester at College

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Day 7 of Monty Green Appreciation Week on Tumblr: Free Day, for which I wrote for Day 5: Favorite Au. My Favorite AU is the College AU. This is sort of about Monty and sort of about me being nostalgic for college. The rave pasta thing really happened. So did some of this other stuff, in altered form. I tried to make it non-Jonty/ship-neutral and failed. So it’s mostly gen, a little Jonty.
> 
> Originally posted to my Tumblr, [here](http://kinetic-elaboration.tumblr.com/post/137537135470/monty-green-week-day-7)

**Monty Green's First Semester at College, Documented in Lists**

**Courses Taken**  
1\. Computer Science  
2\. Chemistry  
3\. Physics  
4\. English*

*He read his poetry assignments out loud; he’s not sure what they mean but they sound better that way; he knows he’s found a good one when Jasper, pretending he isn’t listening, says “read it again” when Monty’s done.

 **People Met**  
1\. Jasper: roommate, Chem lab partner, best friend; midnight conversationalist, joke teller, massive dork; sort of a romantic?; occasional enabler of bad habits  
2\. Clarke: no-nonsense RA; works hard, plays hard, often pretends disapproval; paints with lots of reds that leave her hands looking disconcertingly blood-stained  
3\. Miller: an expert in opening locked doors, not an expert in communication  
4\. Harper: came to flirt with Jasper—no success—stayed to play Apples to Apples into the middle of the night  
5\. Octavia: initially the stuff of myth and legend (Jasper swears she’s a goddess on Earth), still all but meets expectations; a free spirit, fond of walking barefoot and dreaming up rebellions  
6\. Raven: the most competitive person on the planet, proud to win the title

 **Uses for the Dorm Kitchen**  
1\. Baking double-fudge brownies with Clarke at 2pm on Sunday  
2\. Baking special brownies with Jasper at midnight on Thursday  
3\. Cooking too much pasta on Friday night, arguing with Jasper about whose fault that is, offering the excess to everyone who walks by; taking what’s left to a rave on campus to offer to the bodies undulating under strobe lights

 **Secrets Shared While Jasper is Awake**  
1\. Common room, September 28, 8pm: “This poetry stuff isn’t so bad.”  
2\. Dorm room, November 15, 1am: “I like guys—I’m gay, I think—I mean, yeah. Probably.”

 **Secrets Shared While Jasper is Asleep**  
1\. Dorm Room, November 15, 1:30 am: “I mean I like you. Specifically. Too.”

 **Stupid Things Done**  
1\. Accepting Raven’s Hot Wing Challenge: they’re called the Five Alarm Fire Wings for a reason  
2\. Breaking into the art studio with Miller, Clarke, Raven, and Jasper, to drink hard cider and play Jenga while Clarke made some last minute additions to her mid-term project (a portrait of her now-ex)  
3\. Dancing with Harper at the rave; letting Jasper think he might be interested in her  
4\. Assuming Jasper is asleep, when he’s not really sure Jasper is asleep

 **Subtle, Unforgettable Moments**  
1\. The first day of class: walking across the quad to get to an 8:30 class, no other students around; the light comes through the leaves of the trees in just a certain way, and he feels the world is revolving around him.  
2\. An unusually warm October day: sitting on the floor of Clarke’s room, the windows open and a pure breeze coming in; watching her paint; listening to some listless conversation as it floats around him, never settling, never needing to settle.  
3\. The night before exams: standing in the quad, surrounded by stressed students, feet crunching on the new snow, screaming at the top of his lungs until his throat feels hoarse and sore; Jasper’s hand on his shoulder the whole time; their screams die out and Jasper’s hand slides down his back, a little too slowly, until they are no longer touching.**

**It feels like this means something. And maybe it does.


	6. Bellamy/Clarke: After the Breakup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random mostly unedited 600 word Modern Bellarke thing.

He shows up outside her door at 2 am, five weeks and three days after their break up, and completely without warning. He doesn’t wake her. She’d been sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea from the back of the cupboard (his, how fitting, she’ll think later; she hates the stuff but he used to drink it at the end of almost every day; she associates it with his evening glasses and his bare feet, all these little memories of him that never go away)–not drawing, not thinking, not wanting to sleep. The knock startles her first, then frightens her. She reaches for her phone, but there are no missed class and no missed texts, no clue at all. She holds her breath and waits for the person on the other side of the door to go away.

The knocking repeats.

She only has one light on, but maybe it’s enough, enough for whoever it is to know that someone’s home She can picture herself standing up, peeking through the peephole, but her feet don’t want to move. The knock is only an announcement, a way to get her attention—perfectly normal but for the hour—but it feels like an intrusion or a threat.

The third time, instead of knocking, he calls out her name.  Somehow it’s relief that floods her, not annoyance or resentment or confusion, and she’s at the door before she’s quite sure what he’s doing, wondering if the sight of his face will be as familiar as the gruff sound of his voice.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, instead of a greeting. She feels concerned, but sounds accusatory. His hair’s all in the wrong spot and she must not be quite what he expected either, because his confused frown turns, almost immediately, severe.

“I had a terrible idea that I needed to see you,” he says.

What an incredibly bizarre, sincere response. She opens the door all the way and lets him in.

“How’d you know I’d still be up?” she asks, sitting back down at the table and pushing the cold mug of tea across to him. He sits down too, and takes it, and doesn’t mention or perhaps even notice that they are in sync.

“I didn’t. I was driving past and I saw your light.”

“Stalking me?”

“Coming back from O’s new place. Why would you drink this cold?”

“It wasn’t cold when I made it. I’ve been up a while.”

The one light’s not much. His face is obscured by middle of the night shadows, and she can’t read it, which would be disconcerting if it wasn’t how she felt every day of that last month or so, the time they spent drifting apart, she’s not sure how or why.

“Is it weird that when you can’t sleep, I can’t sleep?” he asks, a little too quietly. She looks down, and nods.

“You going to stay?”

“You going to have me?”

The answer should come easily, but it sticks in her throat. _Always_ , she wants to say, and _obviously_. Instead she just stares, and wonders if she seems indecisive, and wonders how long it will take him to look away; he’s just staring back at her, patient, with an open look that says no answer would surprise him and no answer would insult him, and also that maybe he already knows.

“Yeah,” she mumbles finally, and closes her sketchbook, the heavy pages closing down against themselves with the softest of thuds.  “Yeah. Drink your tea and come to bed.”


	7. Miller/Bryan: The Arrest

One advantage to being the son of the chief guard: his dad can call in favors when life really goes to shit. Not the sort of favors that keep Miller out of the Sky Box but at least the sort that get him confined to quarters before trial. Most kids go directly to jail, do not pass go. And yeah, he’s not about to push his luck by asking for _just one more exception, I need to see him, don’t make me say please_ , but the Ark is small, and word travels, and it’s not been twenty-four hours since he first felt his wrists cuffed behind him that he hears the knock on the door.

Small bit of luck that his dad’s not home.

He opens the door and pulls Bryan in and—because he doesn’t want to have this talk, he _cannot_ , and because he’s afraid he won’t get to do this again for a very long time—he pulls him in for a kiss before he even has a chance to open his mouth.

Bryan’s hands are fisted in his shirt.

“What the fuck did you _do_?” he mumbles, right against Miller’s lips. He’s breathing hard, as if he ran here, and Miller can feel the hard press of his lungs, desperate for air, breathing in frantic gulps. Miller’s hands slide down, arms wrapping around his waist, and Bryan’s hands slide up, arms around his neck.

“Got caught.” He’s smiling in that charming-asshole way he knows Bryan only pretends to hate, and he’s pretending too, pretending he can’t feel Bryan shaking.

“You’re still here, though… you’re still here—is your dad getting you out of it?”

Small shake of his head, and the smile falls away. “Don’t think he could even if he wanted to. Unless he wanted to risk getting floated too.”

“Hey, you’re only seventeen.” He presses the tip of his nose against Miller’s nose, as if trying to make sure they touch in as many ways as they possibly can. “You’re not getting floated. You may not even be convicted—”

“When was the last time Kane _didn’t_ win his case?”

Bryan’s hands clench, the slight, short bite of nails against the back of Miller’s neck, and he wishes he could apologize, wishes he could let this thin hope live. But that would be cruel. All he can do is kiss Bryan again, slow and sweet— _I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ —and let them both pretend for a moment they’ll never have to let go.

“You’ll be out in a year, yeah?” Bryan murmurs. This is a hope just plausible enough that Miller won’t argue with it; he needs to hear it as much as Bryan needs to say it, and when he nods their noses bump into each other and their lips brush. “I’ll visit you every week.”

“Yeah, you’ll know where to find me.” The words fall too flat to be a joke, he doesn’t feel them, and Bryan just huffs out a shallow breath.

“Just—remember I’ll be waiting for you. No matter what. Remember that.”

“How could I ever forget?”


	8. Jasper/Monty: Zombie Apocalypse

“Do you think you’d survive the zombie apocalypse?” Monty asks him, which is just the sort of fucked up thing Monty would ask, out of nowhere, and for apparently no reason.

Well, not entirely for no reason. They did spend the afternoon caught up in a zombie movie marathon, because their friends have questionable taste: but at least Raven was there to mock the fake science, and Bryan was there to mock the cheap scares, and when the gore got particularly gruesome, Jasper could pretend to be bothered, just as an excuse to press his nose to Monty’s neck. Still, though, that was hours ago. It’s late now and dark; they’ve turned off all the lights and now there’s just the faint glow of the full moon through the windows left, a slash of light angling over the blankets. The rest of the dorm is probably asleep. They are not trying to sleep. They’ve pushed their single beds together so they can sleep side by side, their arms touching, their legs touching. Jasper feels a strange lightness, unusual for sobriety, that he assumes comes from the hour and the warmth of Monty’s body so close.

“I’d survive any sort of apocalypse,” he answers, now. Then he reaches out for Monty’s hand, twines their fingers together, and raises their hands into the light, just to look at them. “Because I’m tough. You’d survive too.”

“Well, obviously. I suppose we’d find somewhere to hide. Wait it out.”

“Mmm, no. We’d go out with semi-automatics and… axes and shit. Kill tons of zombies until we’re the last ones standing.” He sits up, leaning on one elbow, and places his free hand on Monty’s heart. Then he adds, very seriously, “If you’re going to talk about the apocalypse, you have to think big.”

“I thought you didn’t like gore.” Half his face is in shadow, half lit by the moon, but Jasper can see that he’s smiling.

“If it was a choice between putting an axe through a zombie and getting eaten by a zombie, I’d pick the axe.”

Monty sighs, as if contemplating this, his gaze wandering off into the far corners of the room and away from Jasper’s face. “Yeah, all right,” he concedes. Then he turns back again, the corner of his mouth quirks up, and he pulls Jasper down into a kiss, one hand at the side of his neck, fingers in his hair. He pretends that this is an impulsive, sudden thing, but it wasn’t, it’s not, and it doesn’t matter. When they finally pull apart, Jasper’s half on top of him, and their noses are touching, and Monty’s thumb is absently tracing the curve of his ear.

“I’m glad we don’t live in the apocalypse,” Monty murmurs, which is just the sort of random thing Monty would say, to make Jasper laugh and break the mood.

“Yeah, less time for this,” Jasper agrees, and leans in again.


	9. Jasper/Monty: Cuddly

They move in together as roommates–and best friends, of course–but after a few months it becomes, slowly, easily, almost inevitably, something else. Monty probably should have seen it coming. Jasper lies and says he did.

This is how Monty learns something new about the boy who’s been his other half since they were toddlers, the boy he thought he already knew backwards and forwards and upside down. This is how he learns that Jasper is _cuddly_. He doesn’t look like he would be. He’s too gangly and his elbows are too sharp; he shot up when he hit thirteen and still, a decade later, doesn’t look like he’s quite grown into his own limbs. But at night and even more so in the morning, the first moments of waking, he wraps the blankets around them both, curls his whole body around Monty’s like it’s easy, like this is the best way they fit, and tucks his nose in against Monty’s neck and keeps them both warm. He’s loathe to let go, and on Saturdays, when they set no alarms, he keeps Monty in their bed with terribly unfair kisses and murmured promises. _Just a few minutes more. Just a minute._

He’s less demonstrative in public but that might be for Monty’s benefit. They’re together for almost three months before any of their friends catch on–which is actually kind of hilarious. It’s only after Bellamy catches them kissing in Raven’s kitchen that he or anyone else in the group figures it out, and the awkward moment of invasion is worth it, for the way the expression on Bellamy’s face shaded from shock to something like relief (like the pieces of the universe were sliding finally into place), to embarrassment, to be caught staring as he was. Even now that everyone knows, they act mostly like they always have. Always sitting next to each other, shoulders bumping into shoulders, leg pressed up against leg, joking, laughing. Only sometimes their fingers twining up under the table, where no one can see. Monty says he doesn’t want to be that couple, that annoying, demonstrative couple that hangs out with the group but is never quite there, too caught up in each other and sickeningly sweet. Jasper agrees. They decide they’d rather be ostracized before they make anyone sick with their pet names or heart eyes.

Earning some groans with a dumb joke about weed is still acceptable, though. Some things, they decide, just really never get old.


	10. Jasper/Monty: Fix It Fic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aka: Canon-verse future-fic 4x11 fix it where Jasper and Monty love each other forever
> 
> This was actually written a few hours before 4x11 aired, but it reads as if it were written after.

Everyone’s working long days now, consumed by this rebuilding-the-whole-Earth thing, but not even the most dedicated want to get up and out and off to work before sunrise, which is why Jasper only sees one person when he steps outside. Monty, sitting on the hood of the Rover with his face to the horizon, utterly still.

Jasper walks up to him slowly, not wanting to disturb him, not really wanting to startle him either when he reaches out to touch Monty’s arm and say, “Hey.”

Monty jumps anyway. But then he smiles. “Hey. What are you doing up?”

“What are you?” Jasper counters. “I came to give you this.” He hands Monty one of the old Arkadia mugs and then climbs up onto the hood next to him, mirroring his posture with his legs stretched out in front of him, so close the sides of their legs touch.

Monty peers into the mug with a suspicious look that Jasper would find insulting, if it weren’t so early in the morning. If he didn’t feel so light with the gentle yellow-pink colors of dawn.

“What, you think I’m saying good morning by handing you a screwdriver? It’s orange juice. And it’s real so drink.” He takes a sip of his own, as if to prove it’s not poisoned, then smiles as Monty takes a drink too and a pure look of satisfaction spreads across his face. “I mean what sort of person,” Jasper continues, “starts his day drunk?”

“The sort of person who went to sleep drunk,” Monty answers, and it isn’t quite a question. For a moment, they look away from each other, because even after all this time, some wounds still hurt.

Jasper could say something about all of that time, this long stretch of time that’s brought them here, but instead he asks, “Monty, do you know what today is?”

“Um.” His brow furrows as he tries to pinpoint just when he is, but then he shrugs—like it doesn’t matter anyway. “No. Tuesday, maybe?”

“It’s my birthday,” Jasper says, and holds up his fingers. “The big two-one.” And he sips at his orange juice again. “And four years sober.”

Monty’s not good at talking about things like this, but it’s enough that he wraps his arm around Jasper’s shoulder and pulls them as close together as he can. Because here they are. No one left alone. Still together and the sun slowly starting to come up, suffusing their new world with light.

“Hey Monty?”

“Yeah?”

He pauses a moment, sounding out the words in his head before he says them.

“I love you.”

“You say that all the time.”

Monty’s voice is unusually gentle, warm like spring air, a private voice only Jasper ever gets to hear.

“Yeah, I know.”

For a long time, they’re silent. Their mouths taste like oranges. Their hands find each other, fingers curling together, and the sun rises higher in the sky. Everyone else asleep.

“Hey Jasper?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you too.”


	11. Bellarke: I'm Dying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "I'm dying," (said by Clarke to Bellamy), requested by anonymous on tumblr.

Bellamy’s daily routine has long involved stopping by medical in the afternoon to see Clarke. But only for the last week has his wife been a patient, instead of one of the doctors just getting off shift.

He’s more than familiar, by now, with the sick, the wounded, the hopeless, the dying. Years on the ground, years in the Guard, have given him macabre experience. He's gotten pretty good at knowing what to say in almost every circumstance. But not this one.

"Hey," he greets her, pulling a chair over and coming to site down by her bedside. They reach for each other's hands on instinct. He judges by the strength of her grasp how well she's feeling: weak today, but holding on. Clarke is a fighter; this is what she does.

"Hey," she echoes. Her face is pale, a light sheen of sweat across her cheeks and brow, and her hair is pulled back in a messy braid that someone who's no good with hair must have helped her with. His fingers itch to fix it. Maybe later she’ll let him. But she smiles anyway when she sees him and tries to sit up.

They have this argument, wordless now, every time he comes to visit. She wants to force herself up, scrambling with the heel of her free hand for purchase against the sheets, and he wants her to conserve her energy, to stay safe right where she is.

Today, he wins, but he doesn't always.

Clarke settles back against the pillows with a put-out sigh and rolls her gaze up to the ceiling. "Fine, fine," she murmurs. But she's up again in another second, not of her own volition this time, coughing violently, fitfully. Bellamy holds her hand through it, his other arm around her, keeping her steady until she can regain her breath, soothing her with wordless murmurs until she's calm.

He waits a few more moments, then asks, "How are you feeling?" which might be a dumb question, everything considered. But he asks it every day. It's another part of their new routine.

She shrugs and tries to smile. "Like yesterday. Maybe a little worse. Tell me about your day."

All Clarke ever wants to hear about is his day, his work, the village, their friends: life outside medical, life beyond her small life. When she's healthy, Clarke keeps her fingers in everything. She keeps up with every aspect of Arkadian life, with the Council (even though she's not a member), with the school (even though she has no children), with farming, with engineering, with the Guard. It's not that she's a control freak, even though she is, and she knows it well enough to laugh about it by now, but because after years being constricted by _responsibility_ and by _necessity_ , she can finally let the boundless curiosity she carries within her free.

She can finally love Earth, purely and truly.

So Bellamy tells her about the latest gossip and the latest debates and about all of the unimportant, minute details of his day. Anything to make her feel like she was with him, instead of in bed, stuck, waiting.

She closes her eyes while she listens, and eventually, not even sure if she's still awake, his words falter into silence. He just sits next to her, hand still in her hand, watching the faint twitching of her eyes beneath her eyelids and the rise and fall of her chest.

"Bellamy?"

Her voice, quieter than a whisper, a little ragged at the edges but still gentle and soft, startles him from a precarious line of thought.

He leans in a little closer. "I'm still here."

"I know."

Her eyes flutter open again, and she stares up at him, a dark and serious expression clouding her face.

"I need to tell you something."

He pulls his chair closer still and leans all the way over her, poised for the sharing of secrets. They've shared so many. Fears, confessions. Early declarations of love. Vulnerabilities that no one else could even guess.

Clarke rolls over onto her side, curled up onto herself, and holds his hand in both of her hands now. "Bellamy," she says again, "I'm dying."

He just shakes his head. "No. You're not. You're just sick with something—"

"We don't know what. Everything the Earth's thrown at us—is it so hard to believe it's something deadly?"

"Yes. It's very hard to believe, so don't—"

"Just listen to me."

He falls silent, huffs out a short breath through his nose, and tilts down his head. He stares at the edge of her bed and at a bit of the floor, which feels unbearably distant even though he can feel it beneath his feet. They might as well be floating. His head feels light, his body mere illusion.

"I can feel it. I'm dying."

He doesn't try to argue with her anymore. It's no use. He doesn't believe it, won't believe it until she takes her final breath or maybe even after, but Clarke is stubborn and she'll argue with him right to her grave, or his. When she feels better, he thinks, she'll drop this absurdity. They didn't survive years of hunger, deprivation, war, betrayal, years of the savagery of space and Earth, for either of them to be felled by something little worse than the flu.

Later, when she falls asleep, he slowly gets to his feet again. Stretches out his sore and cramped up limbs. For another long moment, he stares down at her, watches her restless sleep and pushes down the guilt he always feels at leaving her, even for a few hours, even for a moment.

Jackson is coming on shift as he reaches the door, and Bellamy stops him for a moment with one hand to his arm. "Tell me the truth," he says, outright, because to hell with pleasantries: "how's she doing? Is she going to make it?"

"Did she tell you she thinks she won't?" Jackson asks in return, pausing mid-motion as he puts on his medical coat. Bellamy doesn't answer, but something stony and closed off in his face is all the response Jackson needs. He pulls his other arm through its sleeve and says, "Doctors make the worst patients, Bellamy. I wouldn't give up hope yet. It's far too early to tell."

Bellamy glances back over his shoulder, as Clarke, in her sleep, twists and turns over to her other side. She's so restless, he thinks, fighting back the fever even now.

That’s how he knows that Jackson’s right. He won’t abandon hope until she does. And no matter what she says, she hasn’t yet.


End file.
